Raining Bullets
by Knyle Borealis
Summary: John is used to Sherlock dragging him into crazy situations. It's all right; he can handle them all - heights, crazy weather, people trying to kill them. After being friends with the tactless, reckless genius for long enough, anyone would get used to general danger. He just wishes that following Sherlock around didn't get him shot at so often...
1. A Windmill?

**Wow. My second completed story in less than a month. I think something may be wrong with me...**

**Please let me know what you think!**

**The usual disclaimer: BBC's Sherlock is not mine! Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a genius (not I)!**

**P.S. As with all of my stuff, it's not beta-ed or brit-picked, so I'm sorry in advance. I also appreciate any insights or feedback on errors!**

**Enjoy!**

** Knyle B.**

* * *

Rainy afternoons used to keep him inside, John thought absently. He glanced up at the gray, sobbing clouds for what must have been the hundredth time in under five minutes. Water poured into his eyes each time did, but he couldn't help sneaking looks at the spindly figure overhead. High up above, Sherlock was clinging to the side of the skeletal windmill whose base the doctor stood by.

When he could no longer see past the liquid in the way, he looked down again. Shifting his weight, he nudged a nearby stone with his foot. A squelching sound emitted from his soaked footwear with the shift. The doctor made a face. Everything he had on was wet through to his skin, never mind his waterproof jacket. Although, at least griping about that kept him distracted from his friend's efforts.

Having inadvertently reminded himself, John sighed. Why had he ever let Sherlock climb up the windmill in such bad weather? He really didn't want to think about how the brunet was coming down. He had been on edge for the last half hour while the impossible man was up there, kept occupied by the multitude of horrible scenarios his imagination conjured up about slippery metal and falling detectives.

Wishing he'd brought a proper medical kit instead of just the useful bits and pieces in his pockets—just in case—John snuck another look at his flatmate. Sherlock was a thin black strip against the roiling sky, contorting through the windmill's metal ribs with his head bent over the small, partially hidden box that he had clambered up the structure to inspect.

John couldn't remember what it was supposed to be. He'd thought the detective had babbled something about electromagnetic pulses and radio interference that morning, but the record wasn't very clear.

Most of the information that he'd tentatively marked as important had been lost in the interim between Sherlock's dizzying initial deductions about the location of the device and their hectic sprint through the rain to the windmill. He wasn't concerned.

Sherlock always knew what he needed to for a case. John was in charge of the rest: keeping them alive and healthy, handling the money and people, remembering to draw certain moral lines… all of which conspired against his ability to keep up with his friend's store of facts.

Besides, he really didn't care about windmill-mounted widgets and short-wave radio enthusiasts when he was getting soaked in the middle of a country farmer's back forty. Especially when that same farmer had already emptied a rifle barrel in their direction for trespassing the night before.

John shook his head ruefully and resisted the urge to rub his shoulder. Of course the person Sherlock picked to enrage on this case would be armed, and _of course_ he'd find it necessary to drag John into the man's property in full view of his—hopefully empty—house.

It wasn't like a man who'd had a bullet in his shoulder would mind getting shot at, or anything.

Unable to see any longer because of the water pooling in his eyes, the doctor blinked and turned his face back to the ground. Whatever it was Sherlock was up to, he hoped he finished soon. The wind was picking up, and if the scrawny git didn't want to get blown off the tower, he would have to tie himself to it with the nonexistent rope that he _didn't_ bring up with him even though John had practically stuffed it down that blasted coat.

_At least there's no lightning_, the blond told himself with forced optimism.

KRAKH-BOOM!

John sighed and slumped even further into his waterlogged jacket. _Typical_.

A brilliant, erratic saber of light flashed horizontally across the whole sky as he took a breath and squared his shoulders, squinting up at his oblivious friend. "Right, that's enough, Sherlock! Come down!"

The detective paid no heed. But for a slight twist to see the object holding his interest at a new angle, John's call got no response at all. The tall genius was too fixated on meddling with that stupid, day-ruining box to worry about getting electrocuted.

Glowering, John let him continue to fiddle with his discovery for approximately three seconds more, gathering his patience. Then a burst of thunder nearly knocked him off his feet, and he cursed and started for the closest support pole.

Steel. He sighed at its rain-spattered, gleaming surface. Naturally, when one of the biggest, blackest storms John had ever seen came around, Sherlock gravitated towards the tallest, most conducive thing to electricity in sight and attached himself to its top.

Plucking a stone from the mounds of gravel around the windmill's base, John stepped back and took careful aim, lobbing his missile just above his friend's head. It clanged off the metal a good foot above Sherlock's dripping curls.

Startled, Sherlock looked up. Thankfully, his surprise didn't hinder his grip. John hadn't been that worried. If need be, he would have been ready to try and catch his gangly friend, but he knew from experience that the detective could hold a microscope slide steady despite the largest of chemical explosions.

Blinking the water out of his eyes, the doctor refocused on the matter at hand. Sherlock was glaring down at him in questioning distaste. He looked positively owlish through his wind-whipped hair.

"Sherlock, come down!" the blond yelled, straining to make himself heard over the howling racket all around them. The detective's scowl didn't bother him in the least.

With a curt shake of his head, the senseless git bent back to his work. John set his teeth. He was on the verge of grabbing a bigger rock and picking a softer target than the last time when he realized that his flatmate had started talking to him.

John turned his head, trying to catch the words. It didn't sound like Sherlock was speaking any louder than his normal volume, which made it incredibly difficult to understand him. Shelving his irritation in favor of concentrating on his flatmate's low voice, John struggled to hear the wind-garbled sentences drifting down to him.

"Sending out—interfering—local frequencies…intermediate pulse—zoning…"

It was hopeless. Shaking his head, the doctor looked at the six-foot-something child playing above him in exasperation. Another bolt of white light arced overhead, its accompanying burst of noise following almost on top of it.

If Sherlock didn't come down to earth on his own, something was sure to send him. The fall would be over forty feet: definitely damaging and possibly fatal. If only he could just yank him down… John sighed, glaring at the dangerous metal monstrosity enabling Sherlock to stay out of reach.

And then he climbed it, too.

"What are you talking about?" he shouted as he neared his friend.

Sherlock eyed the shorter man approaching beneath him with some surprise. Once John had reached his feet, the doctor reached out to one of the other four poles that bore the windmill's weight and switched over, climbing the cross struts instead of the ladder rungs on Sherlock's pole until they were even.

Wet and bedraggled and not the least bit aware of it, John regarded the little metal addition to the windmill with interest. Sherlock had opened up its top hatch, exposing the wiring and circuitry within that was mostly sheltered from the downpour by the bottom of the windmill housing just above them. Since neither of them had been zapped yet, the blond assumed that his friend had detached the unit from its power source.

He nodded to it, raising his voice over another clap of thunder. "Well?"

Sherlock raised a haughty brow. It did not harmonize well with the darkened, wildly tossed hair plastered to his face and neck or the madly flailing collars of his jacket. He looked ridiculous. John did his utmost not to laugh in his face as the detective challenged, "Aren't you afraid of getting struck by lightning, doctor?"

"Sane people would be," John shot back, unperturbed. He settled his eyes back onto the box and shrugged. "Since I'm up here, do we need to do anything with it?"

Sherlock nodded, already back to attacking its supports. "You can carry it. I'll need it at the room for further study."

"Sure you will." John rolled his eyes and stuck a hand out, steadying the little parcel as it came loose. Noticing a few components that he recognized from his military days, he inquired meekly, "What is it again?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed, accented by the streak of lightning that tore by so close to them that John could taste the ozone it created. Less than a hundred meters away, the slightly taller silo by the barn flashed and sparked as its lightning rode was put to use.

* * *

**Whew. A few more to go!**


	2. To Fall, Be Electrocuted, Or Get Shot

**I've broken this up into a few chapters. It's longer than I thought it was, now that I'm looking at it in this format...**

* * *

It was definitely time to go.

Maddeningly, Sherlock was now the only one with access to the ladder. "By overlapping nearby broadcast frequencies," he explained, turning the freed cube over in his hands, "this device can—"

"The short version, Sherlock," John snapped, holding on for dear life as the entire windmill vibrated with the thunder.

The detective rolled his eyes long-sufferingly. "It's the secret she discovered about the smugglers," he shouted through the rumbling, referring to the victim of their latest case. "This is why she was murdered. The farmer is obviously in on it, too, although he hid it well before."

_Well, he did shoot at us_, John thought darkly as he nodded, accepting the importance of their errand despite how troublesome it was. Since it was all but accomplished, however, he saw no reason why they should stay up on the swaying metal any longer.

"Right. Great job Sherlock. Now go down."

Sherlock looked affronted. Usually, John would be game for a full dissertation on the device and its part in the murder. There may have also been a little disappointment in his eyes over the lack of the effusive praise he so loved. "But—"

Lightning flashed, the white-hot energy crackling audibly nearby. John snatched the box out of the detective's long fingers and stuffed it in his pocket. "_Down_!"

The thunder from the last bolt was so immediate and cacophonous that it almost shook them off their perches. The storm was directly overhead. At last grasping the urgency of the situation, Sherlock looked down and started descending.

With the tempest's arrival, the wind had grown so loud that even bellowing could hardly be heard over it, and bits of ice were starting to intermix with the rain drops. It made the windmill slick and treacherous, forcing the taller man to move slowly.

Thankful as he was for Sherlock's uncommon show of prudence, John still gritted his teeth with every further second he had to wait on the twisting, groaning tower. To make things even better, through the gale he saw a light flicker on at the farmer's house.

_Wonderful. If I'm not electrocuted or killed in a fall by the time the sod fetches his rifle, I can get shot at. Again. _

John was really starting to get tired of criminals having guns. He probably wouldn't have minded so much if he hadn't left his own back in their room at the local hotel. Admittedly, the tower was an impossible place to shoot from. The blond felt suddenly wretched as his attempt to comfort himself failed miserably. Was the windmill moving more than usual all of a sudden?

He closed his eyes. He _really_ needed to get back on the ground. The moment Sherlock was far enough, John all but leapt over the short, harrowing distance between his spot and the detective's. The rungs of the peg ladder were slippery and smooth; his feet couldn't find purchase at first.

The doctor's chest squeezed painfully as his lower half swung into the air, but suddenly there was a confusing flash of relief amongst his panic. His questing fingers had brushed against metal, and then suddenly John was standing on the ladder, gasping. Taking a deep breath, he stared at the pole in front of him and did his utmost not to think about what had almost happened.

In his peripheral vision, the ground seemed to have receded several miles. It took him less than a second to shake away the nerves, but the cold knowledge that he had almost fallen imbued him with renewed respect for the danger of the situation. Only the instinctive tightening of his hands around the supports had saved him; he wasn't likely to be so lucky again.

Below him, Sherlock was over halfway to the ground already. Another floodlight blazed at the house, and then the report of a double-barreled firearm startled the curly-haired brunet into missing a few rungs. Cutting his losses, the detective pushed entirely off the pole of the windmill, hitting the ground with a stumble. He disappeared into a thicket a few meters away.

John cursed violently in his head as he became the most visible target. The farmer evidently recognized his vulnerability as well. Another shot echoed through the gale. Metal clanged against metal close by. Too close. Far, _far_ too close. His shoulder burned in reaction. Then another bullet drew sparks from the pole above his head, and the doctor threw caution to the winds.

Ducking instinctively, he started dropping as fast as he could. It felt like he nearly slipped every other rung, but at least the grass was getting closer with each heart-stopping plunge. Once he'd reached the height that Sherlock had jumped from—_well, close enough_—John turned and followed suit.

Hitting the ground would have hurt a lot more if he wasn't so full of adrenaline. Grunting, John turned his forward momentum into a roll and came up sprinting. A gunshot cracked. Something hot and silent pushed air into his cheek and stung his ear, but he barely felt it. His focus was fixed ahead, where a tall, thin shape hovered close to the trunk of the closest tree, waiting for him.

Sherlock turned and started through the woods as John came upon him. The doctor really hoped he knew the way back, because the road they had come in on before was on the opposite side of the windmill. It was the only route he was familiar with, but it was also completely open to the shooter.

Mentally, he shrugged and let the worry go. If he were being completely honest with himself, he didn't care where they went as long as Sherlock stayed close and they were moving away from the person trying to kill them.

The storm continued to beat at the trees overhead, ejecting bright flashes of danger through the rain-turned-hail. Its thunder was still deafening and physically percussive, although being on the ground did help a bit. John could feel the vibrations in his chest cavity as he fell into step just behind Sherlock.

Despite the maze of the forest, they stayed at a dead run. The pace would carry them all the kilometers back to the town if they needed it to; both of them were well conditioned to prolonged races through hostile territory.

They were even accustomed to ducking every time they heard a loud noise. A bullet zinged into a tree trunk nearby, punctuating the last retort of thunder. John and Sherlock hunched and swerved, scattering through the trees in different directions. Their movements remained coordinated with each other as they ran roughly abreast, keeping enough distance between them to make things harder for the gunman. They'd had to split like that many times.


	3. Ambush

**You know, for a place that has outlawed handguns, Great Britain sure sees a lot of shooting (in Sherlock's universe, anyway).**

* * *

Eventually, the shooting behind them ceased, and they moved back to each other's side. John sighed inwardly as most of the tension left his body. _Safe. For the moment_.

It was easier to grow curious about the cube bouncing in his pocket once that thought sank in. The doctor was glad that his thoughts were finally clearing. There was something uniquely disturbing to him about being on the wrong end of a gun. It put him more on edge than with any other weapon.

Bombs, knives—axes, even—those he could handle with only mild apprehension. But guns? Going up against those made him especially aware of what he was doing. He wasn't paralyzed by them or frightened by them, yet still they got to him in some subtle way. His shoulder gave a twinge at the thought, and John grimaced.

He _really_ didn't like getting shot at.

A dark shape suddenly loomed in his vision; John threw his arms up, protecting his face from the branch swinging back at him from when Sherlock had pushed by it. Rolling his eyes, the blond fell back a few paces, allowing space for the underbrush to settle after his friend went through it the first time. The detective stayed in the lead as they progressed in silence, guiding them through the roaring, thrashing darkness of a forest fighting the sky's wrath.

_Getting poetic_, John observed dryly, vaulting a fallen log and skidding skillfully over the loam on the other side. _Should probably sleep soon_. He hadn't slept in more than two-hour stretches for three days. That meant Sherlock probably hadn't closed his eyes for at least four.

The hotel was a welcoming sight on the edge of town, a shuttered beacon that cast diffused light through the weather's melee. Before Sherlock could go around to the main door and destroy the proprietor's entryway with the gallons of water John suspected they were carrying, the doctor caught hold of his arm and dragged him around to the back entrance.

They were lucky he was so polite. As they slipped into the mudroom, it became clear that all was not right. John was battling the door closed against the hurricane trying to get past it when Sherlock went very still.

Silver eyes swept the small antechamber and the three entryways leading out of it, one on each wall. They alighted on the only door open, on their left. Partially ajar, it let light and sounds from the kitchen spill out, insulating the mudroom with the cheery essence of the hotel's main areas. Sherlock did not seem satisfied with the gentle pervasion of domesticity. He remained rigid for a few moments longer, a bird dog on point.

John didn't ask yet. Having gone on alert the moment he sensed his friend stiffening, he'd aborted his move to shed his dripping outer clothes and kept quiet, letting the detective work out whatever was bothering him.

A curly, wet head tilted, listening intently, and the doctor started wishing he had his gun all over again. Sherlock's shoulders read _danger_, but their room was through the door opposite the kitchen and down a long hallway. If expedience was important—who was he kidding, it was always important with Sherlock—he didn't like his odds of getting the weapon in time to do anything with it. Plus, he had no idea where the threat his friend perceived was coming from. If he went for it, he might walk right into an unwelcome surprise.

He decided to risk asking. "Should I—"

"No, I'd say that was out of the question," Sherlock murmured back, preempting him. "I'm sure they'll be waiting to shoot you there as well."

So the smugglers had come a-calling. It was an ambush. Instantly on high alert, John felt his body switch back into readiness, harnessing the adrenaline that had yet to leave his system.

"Where?" he whispered back to his friend, his thoughts flying to the elderly couple who owned the tiny hotel. "Are the owners still here?"

Immediately at the news, part of his mind had gone on autopilot, mapping the nearby terrain, planning possible escape routes and summoning up his mental notes on the easily defendable positions in the area. If the octogenarians were present, he'd have to adjust his priorities to getting them out.

_Three exits around their living quarters, at least two inside of them,_ he remembered, adding that knowledge to his plans.

Noticing such things had become automatic to him while in Afghanistan, but the practice had come in handy quite a few times since his return to London. Sherlock's version of civilian life hadn't changed John's more cautious habits in the least—although his time as the man's flatmate had made him much better at holding conversations while he dealt with dangerous situations.

Sherlock shook his head in reply to the blond's question. "Bridge night at their club. Looks like the two other guests are out as well." He began to slink towards the door to their hallway. "The smugglers will be positioned throughout the house, most heavily near the entrances and our room. The back entrance was overlooked; they probably assumed it was locked. Or…"

He bent slightly, inspecting the handle of the door. John felt his stomach sink when those keen gray eyes widened. Drawing back towards the door, the doctor demanded, "What—"

"Camera." Sherlock said the word like a curse and blurred into motion, launching himself into John's midriff as the doors all around them exploded into shards of shredded wood and bullet holes.


	4. The One Thing He Hates Most

**I did it! The last chapter! It's a bit longer than the others have been, sorry.**

**I hope you've liked the story so far. Please let me know what you think of the final product!**

**Hugs,**

** Knyle B.**

* * *

Knocked flat by the tackle, John felt Sherlock roll off of him and shielded his exposed face with his arms. The gunfire was harsh and loud in his ears. _Automatic rifles_, he identified numbly, rolling onto his stomach. _They won't have to stop shooting anytime soon_.

He reached up and tried the outside door; it wouldn't budge. Of the doors leading out of the mudroom, only the one to the kitchen lacked a person shooting behind it. It had been thrown open by the force of the bullets hitting it from the opposite side of the mudroom.

The show of force was obviously meant to scare them into the kitchen, where more unpleasantness undoubtedly waited, rather than kill them outright. Exchanging a look, the two friends sank back into the right-hand corner of the little space, staying as low as possible and out of sight of the eye on the camera on the door handle. They wouldn't be manipulated that easily.

John was not happy. Feeling his shoulder start to throb, he swatted a flying splinter away as it tried to bury itself in his eye and looked around at his options. The shooters had gone no lower than waist height with their barrage; assuming that didn't change, he and Sherlock would survive if they stayed put.

The halfhearted attempt at being nonlethal was hardly comforting. A small, cube-shaped weight suddenly gained tons inside John's pocket as he realized what the smugglers must be after. He glanced at Sherlock for inspiration and found himself being stared at already. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John's frown, shrugging. He didn't know what to do, either.

Direct conflict management was more John's area, anyway, the doctor admitted, starting to plan. Then something red caught his eye, and he looked sharply back at Sherlock.

_Was his jaw bleeding like that before we got here?_

No, it wasn't, John determined after a moment of thought. The blame for the injury rested squarely on those in the hotel. His friend had been relatively unscathed until the idiots in the other room started spouting lead missiles and wooden daggers. One of the door splinters must have gotten past the coat's high collar and the thick brown curls. John stared at the cut.

_It'll need stitches, but it's not bad. Two inches lower, and he'd be bleeding out on the floor instead of wincing,_ the physician in the blond's head observed clinically.

Looking away from Sherlock, John shook his head, suddenly furious. In the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the surprised, pained look on the detective's face when he reached up and finally found the wound the doctor had noticed.

John saw red.

Why did criminals always have to act so damn destructively? The loss of property from the case had been astronomical so far, and at the rate the ground floor of the hotel was being shot to pieces, it would be a total loss. Worse, a woman had been murdered, families bankrupted, and a whole town was at wit's end.

And it was all because of the people who were currently shooting at John and his best friend, evidently set on adding two more bodies to the sum total of their damages.

Growling inwardly, the blond motioned that Sherlock stay put and pressed the box from the windmill into his hands. There was gauze and tape in his pockets for the cut, but there would be time for that later. If he handled the situation quickly, Sherlock would be in no trouble before he could tend to him. John turned his back to his friend and started creeping left, his eyes on the threshold of the kitchen.

The doctor didn't show a hint of his intentions or his motives. Inside, he was livid, but only a calm, purposeful mask could be seen on the exterior. Well, perhaps Sherlock did glimpse something of his anger sparking in his eyes, because the detective obeyed his silent command to be still without a hint of his usual complaining.

As he worked carefully into a position where he could see inside the other room without being seen by the camera, the John let the fulminous energy inside of him grow. To him, that's what emotions were in a fight; power sources, not things to be overpowered by. He would make good use of his anger when the occasion came.

He could see four men moving around in the space, settling into various vantage points with weapons poised at the entryway. None of them were directly behind it, however. The bullets from the door on the right of the mudroom were passing right through the kitchen, burying themselves in the stonework on the far side of the room.

Marking their positions, the doctor plotted a rough strategy of what he was about to do. He needed a weapon…

_Frying pan should work_, he decided, and then he left off the vague extrapolating. A general idea was enough; when it came to fighting, he did some of his best work on instinct.

And at that moment, John's instinct was to be fighting mad. He was tired, he was wet, and he was aching. The list of grievances was only growing as he felt his shoulder burn, winced as broken wood cut his exposed skin, and finally remembered that one of the farmer's bullets was responsible for the stinging split on the edge of his ear.

Yet the smugglers thought it was perfectly acceptable to set a trap for him and his best friend and start shooting.

Who the _hell_ did they think they were?

With that snarling thought, the blond uncoiled from his haunches and flew at the doorway.

The men on the other side were too surprised to react as he dove through the opening and rolled, snatching a cast-iron frying pan from its hook beneath the counter as he did so. John lashed out with the heavy club, bludgeoning the nearest enemy's knee. The man went down with a bellow that was cut short by a quick blow to his neck. In the sudden silence, everyone else snapped into motion.

The doctor took shelter behind the island counter as more bullets tore at the air around him. One man was on the same side as him, but his first few shots missed the shorter blond darting at him. John batted the handgun out of his grasp with the pan and knocked his legs out from under him, silencing his outcry with a quick rabbit punch to the forehead.

He wheeled away from the limp man immediately, searching out the remaining threats. The two remaining guns were enough trouble, but they wouldn't be alone for long. He needed to neutralize them before they increased their numbers.

He also needed to do it before _his_ numbers were reduced to nil. The island counter would soon be so full of that it would cease to be a reliable shelter. Then the only place for the bullets to go would be John's hide, and heaven knew Sherlock would throw a fit if he let that happen. At least the dish washer was mounted in the island; its metal components were holding up better than the shaped plywood of the cupboards.

Capitalizing on his previous achievements, John snatched up the gun of his latest target. It was smaller than his glock, felt like a stranger in his hands, but he didn't need to be friends with the thing to use it. As he had entered, John remembered seeing that a rack of heavy cast iron cookware—the proprietress had an affinity for the stuff—hung over one of his enemies.

Popping out from his cover, he fired off two quick shots. The sound of metal crashing and a large body hitting the floor made him smile tightly as he dropped back behind the counter. Pounding feet cut the celebration short; it was one of the shooters from the mud room. The man who had been shooting from behind the door that did not lead to their hallway was coming to join his compatriot.

John thought about where his entrance would be and shifted to the other side of the island. The footsteps grew louder, and he adjusted his grip on the gun.

_Almost there…_

Realizing too late what was about to happen, the last gunman in the kitchen tried to stop his fellow. Ceasing his almost nonstop firing, he turned towards the door and shouted, "No, don't!"

_Well, that was nice of him._

Since the man had broken cover so handily, John shot him first when he came out from behind the refrigerator. Then he pivoted and took out the man gaping in the doorway. In the shoulders only, of course. He'd also taken the time to aim for minimal damage—not that they'd be grateful.

Hopping up from his position, the blond moved quickly to secure all their weapons and tie them up. Sirens sounded outside, growing closer. He shook his head. Would the police ever arrive on time?

Someone shouted behind him, interrupting his thoughts. Sounds of a scuffle drifted out of the mudroom. Leaping for the door, which had been shot closed, John threw it out of the way. Sherlock was just finishing dropping a loose-limbed form onto the tile when the blond saw him. It was the shooter from behind their hallway's door. Looking over at him, the detective grinned rakishly, mocking the idiocy of the man on the floor with his eyes.

"Tried to come through?" John guessed, tossing his friend a clean rag from the drawer next to the door. "Clean up your face a bit when it's safe."

Sherlock snatched the cloth out of the air and nodded, indicating the newly opened door and the hallway beyond. "Unfortunately, his friends exited through the window at the end of the corridor while we were engaged." He frowned, stuffing the rag in his pocket so he could press his hands together in front of his nose. "They wouldn't run; they're notoriously violent. Why—"

John heard movement to his right a split second before the final door burst open. Without thinking, he struck out with his foot, booting the onrushing man in the stomach and cracking him over the head with the butt of his pistol. Another goon ran in through the kitchen behind them, earning himself a roundhouse kick to the face from the doctor, and Sherlock leapt out of the way just in time to avoid John's fist as it broke the final intruder's nose when he tried to come in from the outside door.

As all three of the men lay motionless on the floor around them, the detective and his blogger exchanged a wordless glance. From the front of the hotel came the sounds of the doors being forced open, and the local constabulary raced in. John and Sherlock stood waiting among the bodies while the policemen worked their way to them.

"Well, that was certainly…enthusiastic of you," Sherlock remarked dryly, looking around.

John looked at him questioningly, all his previous anger gone. But for his mussed hair and the gun in his hands, his demeanor would be the same as the calm, nonplussed air he got when Sherlock was deducing too fast at a crime scene. Which, for once, they had helped to create instead of dissect.

Realizing John was waiting to be enlightened, the detective explained, "I don't think I've ever seen you handle so many so…efficiently. Or so…" He eyed the last man John had knocked out, toeing him over with one foot. "Angrily."

It was the farmer.

John couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. Moments later, Sherlock joined in, and soon they were both doubled over, gasping.

It took them a moment to recognize the figure of the Police Inspector standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Straightening up quickly like guilty children, the two friends stood awkwardly as he stared at them. Sherlock pressed the rag to his neck and looked aloof. John nudged a nearby leg away with his foot and very studiously avoided looking at the unconscious farmer.

_He must have driven over once we'd run off_, he surmised, forcing himself to be businesslike.

The Inspector, a local man with little to no previous knowledge of Sherlock and a particularly off-putting first experience with the detective under his belt, looked spooked. Peering around himself at the bodies lying around, the bullet holes, and the puddles everywhere—John finally remembered the he and Sherlock were still shedding liquid like garden hoses—he let the silence grow longer and louder between the three of them.

John watched the small-town policeman's eyes widen a little more each time an officer came over to report something about the crime scene. He assumed they'd get around to him and Sherlock eventually, so he didn't rush the poor man. The inspector couldn't keep from looking at them forever.

Feeling the weight of a familiar gaze, he looked over into Sherlock's smirking eyes. The force's incompetence was amusing—and exasperating—him to no end. The constables were chattering like eager cadets as they located all the downed men and guided the medical personnel to them.

Sherlock had bored of watching them mere seconds after the process started. It was plain to see that he was only still in the mudroom because he found the Inspector's stupefaction humorous. Otherwise he would be long gone to a secure location where he could inspect the cube.

John frowned at the disdain glittering in his flatmate's eyes. Intending to cut off the impertinent comments that such condescension was sure to transform into, he opened his mouth, but the detective raised his brows and dropped his eyes to the gun still in John's grasp before his friend could chastise him. The doctor's lips sealed shut, and he gave up any further plans to defend the locals.

Even he knew that the weapon should have been confiscated the moment the police walked in. He was starting to feel conspicuous with it hanging down at his side, but no one in authority seemed concerned with taking it from him. Deciding that someone had better take control of the situation, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, breaking the modified parade rest that he had naturally fallen into and brushed his hair out of his face with his free hand.

As he'd hoped, the motion was enough to break through the Inspector's haze. Jumping slightly, his target straightened and looked around. From the man's expression, he may as well have been seeing the scene for the first time. John battled down a smile, a courtesy which Sherlock saw no cause to emulate. The detective was so smug that it practically radiated off of him.

Inwardly, John sighed. Of course the righteous git would be tickled to see the policeman so rattled. At their first meeting, the Inspector had made the mistake of expressing doubts about Sherlock's methods in a very tactless manner. So naturally he had been demoted from Sherlock's already low estimation of him. Thanks to the unwitting error, the officer was irrevocably among the ranks of those like Anderson and had become an object of complete scorn.

Not helping himself in the detective's eyes in the slightest, the Inspector broke the silence at last with a bleat, imitating the sheep that were so abundant near his municipality.

"You did this?" he inquired of Sherlock, his eyes wide and unbelieving as he gestured to their brutalized surroundings—and the inert, equally treated people lying within them. "You took care of all these…fellows? All _nine_ of them?"

Sherlock looked slightly annoyed. To anyone that didn't know him, though, he just appeared to get even haughtier. With reluctance, he shook his head infinitesimally. "No, I only dealt with this one." He poked the indicated man with the toe of one expensive shoe. Then those bright silver eyes swung left, and John felt a blush begin to threaten under the surface of his face. "John handled the rest."

The doctor forced himself not to fidget under the gape-mouthed stare he was suddenly treated to. By some miracle, the Inspector managed not to point as he gasped out, "_You_? But you're a—"

"Ex-army doctor," Sherlock finished smoothly, looking quite satisfied with the increase in the policeman's bewilderment. "John has certain…experience in managing confrontations."

The Inspector gawked. John didn't let himself look away, but he wished Sherlock had kept his mouth shut. He was used to the brunet getting all the attention. When it was turned on him… He hoped his friend would come up with something outrageous to say soon.

At least the Inspector finally seemed to notice that he still had the gun. "Er, I'll take that," the man offered, extending a hand. He continued to ogle John with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. "I guess you were trained for this sort of thing, then."

Well and truly blushing, John shrugged and offered the pistol to him end first. It wasn't that he had been prepared to fight—at least, not in full. He glanced at the holes and splinters all around him, then through the kitchen door at the pile of firearms he'd left on the counter. Yes, he had acted because he was capable of it and because he felt obligated to do it. What had made him so effective, though?

He _really_ didn't like getting shot at.

* * *

**And there you have it. I've actually finished another fic. **

**I love all reviews, rain or shine!**

**Thank you for reading. **

** Knyle B.**


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